It’s like déjà vu all over again.
—Yogi Berra
I SPED ALONG a scenic route toward the lofty Victorian mansion Seymour Tarnish called home.
If there was a tony section of our little town, Larchmont was it. Located far beyond our crowded commercial area of Cranberry Street and the narrow confines of the “suburbs,” with tiny yards and doll houses, Larchmont sported rolling hills and palatial homes with sprawling, manicured lawns and perfectly pruned ornamental shrubbery.
How an ordinary mailman and part-time ice cream truck vendor came to live on this luxurious avenue, in the reputedly “haunted mansion” of the late Theodora Todd, was a story in itself. I could only say that for a seemingly unremarkable man, Seymour Tarnish led a pretty remarkable life.
Jeopardy! win aside, I’d seen my unassuming friend hold his own with a drawing room of Harvard professors and the Phelps Tool-and-Die’s crew on bowling night. For his vast knowledge of popular culture alone, Seymour deserved an honorary doctorate in American social studies. And though his outspoken nature could be off-putting at times, Quindicott’s one and only ice cream man was still one of a kind—and a true friend.
Not that friendship with the guy was always easy.
Case in point: I’d placed a call to Seymour as soon as I hit the highway, but he didn’t pick up. I figured he was in the shower and tried again ten minutes later. Still no answer! And he was the one who wanted to be picked up “no later” than half past twelve. I would be plenty peeved if I found him lounging around in his Spider-Man pajamas, streaming episodes of Green Acres.
Right on time, I turned onto the winding driveway that led up to Theodora Todd’s mansion. Hugged by a pair of wind-twisted oaks and hemmed by grounds that were anything but manicured, the old Victorian looked haunted even in broad daylight.
In truth I never much liked this place, and I would never understand how Seymour felt comfortable enough to actually live here—
“Oh no.”
My running thoughts stopped dead when I saw the mansion’s front door standing wide open, and with no Seymour in sight. I slammed on the brakes so hard I was thrown against the shoulder harness.
Proceed with caution, Jack said. Remember what you found at Old Walt’s place.
“God, I hope not!”
Fighting panic, I pressed the gas and rolled the car forward. When I reached the house, I cut the engine and threw off my shoulder strap.
Hold your horses, Calamity Jane, where are you riding off to?
“Seymour might be hurt. I have to go in—”
First I want you to grab your Ameche.
“English, Jack!”
Don’t go in there until you use your Dick Tracy wrist radio to call in the law.
“You actually want me to call Chief Ciders? But you hate the guy.”
Better a dim bulb than no light at all.
Like many of the local merchants in Quindicott, I had the chief’s personal phone number on speed dial, and he picked up on the first ring. I told him I believed I had stumbled across a burglary, or maybe even a robbery in progress at Seymour’s place.
“That old spook house on Larchmont? Are you sure your pal’s not pulling off some prank? You remember that stunt with those firecrackers, don’t you?”
“That was over twenty years ago!”
“And fireworks are still illegal.”
“Are you going to send help, or do I call the staties?”
(That got him.) “I’ll dispatch Deputy Chief Franzetti. He’s across town, but he can be there in ten or fifteen minutes.”
“I can’t wait that long. Seymour may be injured.”
“Well, if this is a burglary, like you claim, he could be knocked cold, and you will be too if some opioid junkie is ransacking the place. Lock your car door and stay inside until Eddie gets there.”
The chief ended the call, and I tucked my phone away. Then I opened the car door.
You’re not going to wait for the coppers, are you?
“Seymour may be in trouble, Jack.”
I was across the porch and over the threshold in seconds. The first thing I did was peek behind the door—and felt a rush of relief when I found nothing.
“Seymour?”
I activated the lighting Seymour had installed in the foyer. A dozen colorful canvases—framed pulp cover prints mixed with movie posters—were bathed in a soft glow. The rest of the house remained in shadow.
I walked passed the art gallery and made a left.
The noonday sun streamed through the lace-curtained windows in Seymour’s living room. The place seemed undisturbed. I noted the ultraexpensive home theater unit and giant-screen television were untouched—an odd miss for a burglar.
“Jack?” I whispered.
I’m on the same party line, doll. If there’s a crime, it isn’t your average knockover.
I called for Seymour again—and again there was no reply.
Swallowing my fear, I decided to head for the second floor. But as I approached the staircase, I heard a loud thumping noise emanating from the walls themselves.
At the same time an eerie fluttering sound, not at all human, echoed down the windowless hallway that led to the kitchen.
I was about to call out again, when I heard the blood-curdling screech.
“DANGER, WILL ROBINSON! DANGER! DANGER!”
What looked like a rabid bat to my fevered imagination zoomed out of the dark hallway. I ducked and covered, flattening myself on the worn Persian rug as the winged creature swooped over me.
I heard the fluttering thing settle on the mantel behind me. Then another scream, this one straight out of Seymour’s favorite Star Trek movie.
“KHAAAAANNNNNNNNN!”
That’s when I realized I’d been assaulted by Seymour’s talking parrot.
“Waldo, calm down!”
In response, the parrot took a short flight from the mantel to Seymour’s life-size Mr. Spock standee, where it cocked its head and promptly took a dump.
“Shame on you.”
“DANGER! DANGER!” the parrot squawked back.
I heard another thump, followed by a muffled but most definitely human cry.
Scanning the room, I saw the sound was coming from the walk-in coat closet—“saw” because the double doors vibrated with each thump!
“Seymour? Is that you?!”
The pounding redoubled in intensity, but the doors remained shut tight. I soon discovered why. The twin brass doorknobs had been tied together with a curtain rope, effectively trapping the victim inside.
“Hold on, Seymour! I’ll get you out.”
It took a full minute of frantic striving and two broken fingernails before I managed to untangle the decorative rope. The closet doors burst open immediately.
With a horrified shout, I jumped backward.
Bound and gagged and wearing wrinkled Superman pajamas, Seymour plunged through the gap. He let out a muffled howl as his already bloody head rebounded off the hardwood floor.